


All I Want for Christmas

by raeldaza



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But still in the Avatar world sort of kinda, Christmas, Developing Friendships, Fluff, Gen, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: “So, IDEA!” Aang exclaims suddenly, making Zuko drop his spoon in surprise. “Why don’t we road trip to Ba Sing Se so you can be with your Uncle on Christmas morning?”
Comments: 5
Kudos: 55





	All I Want for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Just something for fun! There's a lot of hyphens and some Christmas-happenings, and some hand-waving on AU vs their universe. 
> 
> Happy holidays!

Zuko always loved snow, in theory.

Growing up where he did, it wasn’t anything beyond theory — a concept that books and tales and paintings relayed, that he simply had to trust to exist. The whole concept appealed to him, though, especially as he grew older and harder and more alienated with the ways of his people and land.

The idea that something completely natural could completely change the look of a landscape, in minutes alone, was appealing. And beyond – that it was beautiful to the eye, something small and unique that massed into something large and cohesive.

And, more than anything, it was soundless.

The first few years after his banishment, he had considered extending his travels to the North and South, with the ulterior motive of finally seeing it person. Uncle, in particular, had encouraged him – “Zuko, you’re allowed take time for yourself, you know” – but he had never managed to convince himself a childhood fancy was good enough motivation to change course.

When he had first stepped off the plane in the Northern Water Tribe territory, his foot fell through the snow, several inches deeper than he had expected.

It made a crunching noise, he had realized. And all he had wanted was to turn to his Uncle, and say, “It crunched. Did you hear? It makes noise when you step on it. I never knew.”

But – of course, there was no Uncle beside him, no one there but the one other tourist on the plane who had huffed behind him, annoyed that his pause was blocking the steps. Zuko had made right sure of his seclusion, with his hasty words and even hastier actions.

The snow was just as beautiful as described – more so, at first. The wide, blank plains of the Northern territory spanned to the horizon, unbroken by buildings or trees, no modern infrastructure, just still, unblemished land for miles and miles and miles. It reminded him of his time on sea – vast and endless, but calmer, more peaceful than the depths of the ocean.

The flakes too, were more mesmerizing than promised. They had fallen softly as he had walked towards the airport lobby. To his delight, they stayed for a few moments before melting – intricate, detailed little six-pointed things, lovely even in their impermanence, or possibly for it, and the other passenger passed him by minutes as he halted on the sidewalk, just watching flakes fall and disappear on his coat sleeve.

However, he soon liked snow a lot more in theory, and a lot less in practice.

Beautiful as it may be, it was far more beautiful at a glance – at first fall, at untarnished. At human interaction, it was a lot less nice.

He could deal – grumpily – with the cold feet, the wet socks, the water droplets falling down his back.

He could also deal – more grumpily – with struggling to walk, slipping and falling, bruising his hip, and having to essentially drag his feet without lifting them for half a mile to get to the car rental.

He could not deal with driving.

Zuko, characteristically, had no thought-out plans when he bought the ticket to come to the Northern territory over Christmas. He simply could not stay where he was anymore – not functionally, since he quite literally was not welcome in the town he was in anymore, but also he just – he could not do it. He could not be where he was anymore, not with himself, not with those people, not around that environment.

And so he left.

And he had not prepared – not for anything, but most certainly not for snow, and its many wonders and dangers.

The other tourist – who turned out was not a tourist after all, but a local returning for the holiday – graciously gave him a ride to the only joint hotel and restaurant within a respectable traveling distance.

And so he sat, on Christmas Eve, completely alone on a dark blue booth, hands around a steaming mug of nearly undrinkable black tea, idly watching the quiet snow fall outside the diner window into increasingly large snowdrifts, and feeling around as melancholy as he ever has in his life. 

_Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ played quietly over the diner’s speakers; Christmas lights hung from the ceiling, poorly strung from side to side and around the door, sagging in places and tight in others. Wreaths were placed on every window and door, hung with red ribbons and twinkling white lights. A large Christmas tree was placed in a corner, glistening with soft colored lights and shiny ornaments, wishing customers happy holidays and seasons greetings and Hanukahs and good new years, with hand-strung popcorn and cranberry garland adorning its branches. A young man re-filling napkin holders was humming along to the radio by the kitchen bar, his garish-Christmas sweater with blinking lights caught on a chair without his notice. Quiet sounds from the kitchen filled the air, the head of a young woman with dark hair and a cap barely visible through the opening to the kitchen. Outside, the neon sign proclaiming “KANNA’S PLACE” blinked every few moments, standing out against the slowing blizzard, bright and light against the dark, cloudy sky.

The whole thing made Zuko want to cry.

“Hey, my name’s Sokka, I’ll be your server today. Sorry about the wait,” a voice said from his left. Tearing his eyes from the window, Zuko looked over at what appeared to be his waiter, a young man – his age, roughly – wearing a blue sweater and an apron with no nametag. “I was in the kitchen, trying to fix the stovetop.”

He paused, which was usually Zuko’s only cue that someone was expecting him to speak in a small talk situation. “Oh, it’s okay.”

“Good!” Sokka replied brightly. “I see Aang was able to get you some tea.” He gestured behind him, where the young, bald man had finished with the napkins and was now dismally trying to re-ravel his sweater that had pulled loose from the chair.

He paused again, so apparently small talk was still appropriate.

“Yes. It’s black.”

Because that was his only option. Uncle would have made a comment, something funny and accurate, something that would make Sokka laugh and continue to talk and not made this whole situation just somehow more sad than it was already.

“Okay, well, have you had a chance to look at the menu? What can I get you?”

Sokka was sticking out his tongue slightly, biting it, which was momentarily fairly distracting. The question caught up to Zuko and he glanced down at the plastic, over-crowded menu, which he had not, in fact, looked at yet. “Oh, uh.” The typeface was small, and he couldn’t get his eyes to focus on any of the words. “Just get me whatever.”

Sokka lowered his pencil from the small notepad he had taken from his apron and raised an eyebrow. “Uh, you know that’s not really how restaurants work, right? I have to tell Katara,” he gestured back towards the kitchen, “what she should make. I can’t just say whatever.”

Embarrassment made his temper flare. “Well, then, _you choose!”_

Too harsh – way too harsh, given how high Sokka’s eyebrows raised and the hands that instinctively came up in a placating gesture.

“Ugh.” Zuko put his head in his hands. “Whatever, soup.” He spoke into hands, slightly muffled. “Whatever soup you have is fine.”

“K, man, I’ll put that right in.” He turned on his heel and walked back towards the kitchen quickly – and if there’s anything Zuko apparently knows how to do, it’s make people want to leave him quickly.

“Why am I like this,” he says into his hands, quietly. He can hear a door lightly close, probably the kitchen, and then, to his surprise, the sound of someone sliding into the booth opposite him.

He peeks up from between his fingers, and it’s the kid from the counter.

“Hi!” He says brightly. He shoves a hand across the tabletop. “My name’s Aang. What’s yours?”

Zuko eyes the hand warily for a moment, before quickly and loosely shaking it. “Zuko.”

“Zuko, oh, is that a Fire Nation name?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool!” His eyes are dark grey, but bright and alive under the fluorescent diner lights. “I’ve been there a couple times. I once did a cultural exchange program with your school. I had fun. Or I made them have fun, and had fun having them have fun. I don’t actually live here either. I was originally from the Air Temple, but – yeah, you know about that, I’m sure. My escapee boat had crashed in the Southern Water Tribe territory, and Katara and Sokka took me in, and then we decided to road trip together for a while, and do some other stuff, probably nothing you need to know about, but anyway, we ended up here because they have some family here. This is their family’s diner. They won’t be here forever but Katara has classes here with some specialized instructors, and Sokka’s doing online university, so they’re staying until she’s done, and I’m visiting but staying a while. Why are you here?”

Zuko had a girlfriend for several years that he never told his favorite food since it seemed fairly personal, and this stranger just revealed he was a victim of a genocide within the first interaction. In fact, Zuko thinks he hasn’t actually, literally uttered three words yet.

“I’m just visiting,” Zuko decides on, after an awkwardly long pause.

“Cool, that’s cool too. This place is awesome. Are you here to visit someone for Christmas?”

“Uh, no,” Zuko answers. He considers it briefly – another piece of information he’d never usually give up, but as he keeps being told, conversations usually have an expectation of mutual reciprocity. “I don’t have family here. They’re all in the Fire Nation. Except my Uncle. He’s in Ba Sing Se. He owns a tea shop there. I used to work there with him for a little while, but – uh, now I don’t.”

The kitchen door opens as he’s finishing his words, shouldered open by Sokka, who is holding a steaming bowl of soup. His step falters briefly at Aang’s presence at the booth, but only a moment – given Aang’s whole apparent approach to life, he wouldn’t be surprised if this was a common occurrence.

Sokka places the soup in front of Zuko – chicken noodle, apparently – and, to Zuko’s surprise, elbows Aang to move over, and slides in next to him.

“What are we talking about?”

“Your life stories, I guess,” Zuko replies. He picks up the spoon, though he knows the soup is too hot to eat, steam billowing up towards his eyes. Outside, the snow is slowing to what would account as a drizzle in rain. Across from him, Aang’s bouncing slightly where he’s sitting, and Sokka’s hands are folded over one another on the table.

 _I’ll Be Home for Christmas_ croons lightly in the background, and he has no idea what to say to either of them.

“He said your sister is here for, uh, specialized courses?” He tries.

“Mhmm,” Sokka confirms. “We didn’t have anyone in the South who knew what she wanted to learn, so we came up here a year or so ago. We work here in the meantime, for our gran-gran, keep the place up. She moved up here a few years before us to be with her old boyfriend.”

“And why did you join her?”

“Because it’s my sister,” Sokka says, like it’s obvious why that’s reason enough. Zuko’s mind flits to Azula.

He doesn’t understand at all, but doesn’t know how to vocalize that without sounding like an asshole.

“So you have family here?” He tries, and then immediately regrets, since politeness usually dictates that he may get that question right back.

“Yeah, our gran-gran and her husband, and some cousins and such. No parents, if that’s what you’re getting at. No Mom, and Dad’s not around, unfortunately. How about you?”

“No Mom,” Zuko parrots. “Dad’s still in the Fire Nation, fortunately.”

Aang’s answer about parents goes unquestioned and answered.

“So you’re not here to visit anyone?” Sokka asks, which is still a fair question, and probably the first Zuko would ask if their positions were reversed, but the air is stilted with awkwardness around forced levity, and he doesn’t want to be having this conversation, or any conversation. He wants to sit, _alone_ , stew in his own sadness, revel is his unhappiness until he’s comfortably surrounded by the familiar emotion, and above all, not have to try. He _wants_ to tell them to please hold hands with their questions and fuck off with them into a snowbank.

However.

Screaming in dramatics at them to shut up isn’t exactly the _trying to be good_ that he _will_ achieve this year, so help him.

And so, “No,” he eventually answers. “I’m here alone.”

“On Christmas Eve?” The question is implicit, and Zuko’s heart pounds.

Does everyone have to _try_ so hard when having a casual conversation?

“I mean,” Sokka continues, “We don’t celebrate Christmas—”

“Wrong religion,” Aang supplies, piping up.

“Right, so if you don’t, more power to you, but—”

“But it’s not my religion either,” Aang interrupts. “And I still celebrate. I just like the festive spirit.”

“And the lights,” Sokka adds.

“And the lights,” Aang confirms, nodding a bit more vigorously than Zuko thinks is necessary for old age without neck pain.

“I remember it was a thing in the Fire Nation, at least when we were there.”

“Yeah, no, it is. I celebrate. Or I did. But. Uh, no one to celebrate it with this year.”

“Mom?” Sokka asks quietly, and it takes Zuko a moment to piece together that he had mentioned earlier that she was no longer in the picture. Sokka’s _‘no mom’_ echoes in Zuko’s head, and he wonders if a newly empty chair in their home had any influence on two teenagers running essentially to the other side of the globe.

“No – Uncle.” He looks down at his tea. “It used to be my Uncle.”

In years far past, Christmas was a celebration with his mother as well, that much was true. They were always too busy with diplomatic activities to truly celebrate on the day of – the Fire Nation festival was always there to make an appearance at, there was always other people to greet, parties to join. But mornings were his mother’s moments; she used to place oranges and candies at the foot of his and Azula’s bed before waking them and watch them excitedly pull off the glittering string. It only lasted minutes, but it’s some of the fondest Christmas memories Zuko has.

After – Ozai never took a moment for Christmas, of course. Mornings were spent being woken by servants and dressed in finery so he could stand in a corner and be side-eyed and talked down to for hours.

And after the banishment, the disfigurement – Uncle tried. Zuko had never given him any credit at the time, always grumbling and occasionally screaming, but he _had_ tried. He had prodded and gently nudged Zuko into playing board games, had decorated his chambers, had jollily sung Christmas carols around the boat. In the morning, he had specially brewed fruity tea – orange, usually. It had never occurred to Zuko before this exact moment, but perhaps he had chosen that flavor to remind Zuko of those softer mornings with his mother.

Always trying, never rewarded – a reoccurring theme in their lives, it seemed.

His eyes pricked with regrets, and he breathed deeply around the enormity of the feeling.

“The Uncle that’s in Ba Sing Se?” Aang asks, and it takes Zuko a moment to come back to the moment, and remember that Aang knows this fact about him that literally no one else knows.

Not that there’s anyone left to care to know anything about Zuko.

“Uh, yes. That Uncle. His name is Iroh. He always liked Christmas, always went on and on about how it’s important to have a day set aside to show people you care. ‘Zuko, Christmas isn’t about the holiday, it’s about having people _for_ the holiday.’ He always loved parties.” Iroh is about the only thing Zuko knows how to talk about, it feels. “He probably has invited a whole bunch of neighbors over and is giving them special holiday tea.”

“Neighbors?” Sokka repeats. “Not family?”

Zuko snorts. “No. I’m here.”

It doesn’t occur to him until a moment later that Sokka might have meant Ozai, or someone else in their immediate family, and that makes him want to snort all over again.

“Are you going to call him, wish him a Merry Christmas? We have a landline if you want to,” Sokka points to a wall in the corner, where, indeed, sits a rotary telephone. “The snow here gets pretty bad, cell signal is spotty at best. You’d be better off with the landline.”

Zuko looks down at his soup, which is no longer steaming, but he can’t bring himself to eat it. This is the most he’s conversed with someone in literal months – since he left Uncle, and all it makes him want to do is spill more of his thoughts, his life. Though saying it once made his Uncle full-belly laugh, he’s never thought of himself as dramatic – but apparently he’s willing to spill any of his secrets, so long as there’s an ear to catch them.

“He doesn’t want to hear from me, I’m sure. I – we left on bad terms. He was trying to help me and I just pushed him away, like I always do. He’ll be furious with me. I don’t know how I can ever make it up to him.”

“Sorry is usually a good place to start!” Aang says, arm coming up to punctuate a well-meaning but misguided cheer.

Sokka rolls his eyes fondly, and it fully hits Zuko that he has no idea what’s going on here. It’s Christmas Eve – and celebratory or not, these people both have family, people they love and care for, and these people are within hearing distance. They should be sat in front of a fire, or at least in their _homes,_ being around one another and enjoying their quiet night, the night set aside to exist with people you love and who love you. They could be drinking hot chocolate, singing carols, watching movies. They could be talking to one another, and not him – they could be ignoring him. Everyone else in this situation would have. This entire interaction could have boiled down to “soup” and “money,” and yet, these two strangers now know more about him than his own father.

“He’d never forgive me,” Zuko says. “Sorry doesn’t make up for what’s been done.”

“Shitty Uncle,” Sokka says bluntly. Zuko’s head snaps up from where he was staring at his tea. “To never forgive his nephew?”

“He is _not,”_ Zuko snaps. “He’s the greatest person I’ve ever known.”

“The greatest person you know probably would be willing to forgive with a sincere I’m sorry, I’d think,” says Aang.

Zuko blinks, and, in a rare moment, takes a moment to think.

“I mean—” he says. His hand unconsciously moves to his scar, rubbing it thoughtlessly. “I mean, maybe. I don’t think so.”

“It’s Christmas,” Aang says brightly. “I bet he’d love to hear from you.”

“Yeah,” Sokka says after a moment, his eyes dragging an inch or so to the right, to meet Zuko’s eye, from where it was trained on Zuko’s hand. “If he’s a great man, I’m sure he’d at least like to hear from you.”

“I don’t remember his number.”

“It’s not on your phone?”

“I threw my phone off a cliff after I dared it to ring at me after I left home,” Zuko admits, and feels a familiar hot coil at shame at the looks he receives at that.

Maybe Uncle had a point about the dramatics.

Aang appears to be having some sort of silent conversation with Sokka, if the movement of eyebrows and under the table kicking is any indication. Zuko leaves them to it, and finally tries the soup, which has significantly cooled off in the time he’s been having this heart to heart. It’s good, though, if nothing better than he could get from a can. He’s not really in a state to be picky.

“So, IDEA!” Aang exclaims suddenly, making Zuko drop his spoon in surprise. “Why don’t we road trip to Ba Sing Se so you can be with your Uncle on Christmas morning?”

Zuko stares.

Aang stares back, smile so wide that you could count his teeth. It doesn’t falter, even in Zuko’s silence, and he lets his eyes drift to Sokka, whose arms are crossed and is glancing at Aang in fond indulgence.

“What?” Zuko eventually manages.

Any comment is apparently what Aang needed. “It’s a _great_ idea. What’s a better use of holiday spirit than reuniting a family on _Christmas?_ You said you weren’t here for anything – I don’t have plans, Sokka and Katara don’t have plans, why not use the spirit of love in the air to have you be with the person you love?”

“It’s a doable drive,” Sokka inputs. He looks calm, collected, and far too rational a person to be suggesting this. “Long – but I did a road trip there last year, I still have the plans. It’s _very_ detailed.” His eyes gleam, and Zuko gets the distinct impression that this plan may be documented down the mile and minute. “It’s doable to get you there by about 8am, if we leave now and get Katara to come, to hand off driving.”

Zuko glances out the window – the snow is deep, but not so deep that driving is unthinkable, to those with practice.

Aang apparently foresees his question, answering, “Don’t worry, I have a trusty ol’ car who can fly over anything. He got me all the way to the Southern Territory and back up, and all around the world. We’ll make it.”

“But—” Zuko falters. He still hasn’t eaten his soup, he still hasn’t even been here for more than a couple hours, he still doesn’t _know_ these people. “But—why would _you_ want to?”

“I said,” Aang says, eyes wide and gleaming. “ _Christmas.”_

Zuko’s eyes flit to Sokka’s, helplessly.

Sokka shrugs, shoulders to his ears. “I don’t know, man. I don’t have other plans. Sounds like it’d be good for you. Why not? It’s not like helping is a hardship.”

And Zuko realizes – these are _good_ people.

“I—” He has no idea how to respond. “I—”

He doesn’t think Iroh wants to see him, will even agree to see him. If he does – he’ll receive the lashing he’s earned.

But he has earned it, and who is he if he refuses to receive it? Who is he if he never even attempts to make amends? He doesn’t want his past to be the most Uncle will ever love him.

What is Uncle worth to him?

Looking at the faces of these two young men – two friendly, kind young men, softened by the Christmas lights, framed by the halo of a fluorescent bulb reflecting off a snowbank, men he doesn’t know, would not do anything for – he realizes, everything.

He’s worth anything.

“Okay. If you really—okay.”

“KATARA!” Aang yells, making Zuko jump and Sokka roll his eyes. “We’re going to Ba Sing Se!”

A head pops up out of the kitchen window.

“Excuse me?”

* * *

Aang wasn’t actually paying attention when the boy entered the diner. Sokka had exasperatedly asked him to please stop hanging snowflakes on the ceiling – “Christmas is _tomorrow,_ Aang, and we’re _closed._ Who do you think will enjoy them before we take them down?” “ _Me!”_ – and make himself useful refilling the napkins. He had obliged, and had taken a short break to bring the guy a hot mug of tea when he first came in. Beyond noticing he was young and soft-spoken, Aang hadn’t paid much mind.

But when he unfortunately got Katara’s Christmas sweater snagged on the chair and was trying to fix it, he heard someone shout at Sokka from the booth near the window. His head snapped up and his hackles immediately rose – he considered himself a fairly calm person, but nothing could lift his temper like someone mistreating his people.

But the boy in the booth’s head was in his hands, and whatever he said next was soft enough that Aang couldn’t catch it. Sokka turned after a moment and there was no trace of anger in his expression, and Aang’s defenses lowered. The boy was now turned to look out the window, watching the flakes flutter down, the new neon sign blinking bright.

That would have been the end of it – but.

But he looked so _sad._ So much contained pain in such a young face.

Aang is no stranger to sadness. Worse, he’s no stranger to loneliness. Why would a boy be completely alone on Christmas Eve, all the way in the Northern Water tribe territory, eating by himself, if he had literally any other option?

Aang isn’t self-conscious, nor does he put a lot of stake in his pride – but he’d be made a fool a hundred times over if it could alleviate that feeling in the slightest in another. Rambling small talk is a small price to pay for the look of sadness to be replaced by one of bewilderment.

And a road trip?

That isn’t even a price to _pay._ He’d pay to _get to_ road trip during a snowstorm. And Ba Sing Se is one of his favorites from his travels; he had a zoo he helped established back in the day, he’d love to visit once again. Going with a stranger is hardly a hardship.

“And we’re _off,_ ” he yells, pulling out onto the main highway.

Katara’s already laid out on the backseat, legs stretched into Sokka’s lap, who gives a fairly lackluster “Wahoo,” as they begin to accelerate.

“All the radio presents are Christmas music stations, feel free to choose any of them.”

Zuko’s staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused through the windshield, and he gives no indication that he’s heard. Aang reaches towards the dial and Zuko, eyes straight ahead, reaches out and slaps Aang’s hand away.

“Silence,” Zuko requests.

“Road trips always start out with a positive, upbeat song, Zuko,” Aang points out a perfectly reasonable fact, and switches on the radio. _White Christmas_ begins to play, halfway through the song, and, in a feat of compromise, Aang turns it down so the words are only slightly audible.

“So, Zuko, what do you do for fun?”

Zuko spares him a glance this time, at least. “I don’t know. Nothing.”

“Do you have any hobbies?”

“Not really.”

“What did you spend last year doing?”

“I don’t know. Dishonorable stuff.”

“What do you want to do next year?”

“I don’t know. Regain my honor.”

“And how do you want to do that?”

“I don’t know. Doing things, maybe.”

“What kinds of things?”

“I don’t know.”

A quiet, painful beat passes.

“Hey, guess what?” Sokka says from the back, faux cheerful. “This car ride is only twelve more hours!”

 _I really am out here suggesting dumb shit,_ Aang thinks to himself.

“So,” he says, hoping desperation isn’t seeping into his tone. “What do you want to do for twelve hours?”

“Contemplate our place in the universe.” Zuko’s tone is far too deadpan, and Aang doesn’t know him well enough to even begin to guess if he’s joking. Zuko spares him a side glance. “What, don’t you want to do that?”

“Super don’t, super sorry.”

“Hmpf,” Zuko mutters, and then goes quiet again.

The snow is only blowing in gusts, now. There isn’t much to see outside – the white expanse is unbroken by natural or human-made figures, just white expanse clouded by the dark sky. _O Come, O Come Emmanuel_ is playing quietly over the speakers. Aang thinks back to his and Katara’s home, where he could be right now, with the tree Katara indulged him with back three weeks ago. He had put on the most energetic Christmas music he could find, and had pulled Katara into a poorly-executed waltz, accidentally hitting into their couch, their fireplace, and their table in quick succession. He had tried to spin her at one point, and her hair got caught in the Christmas tree, tangling an ornament and tinsel in her dark, thick hair. He had pulled her back into his chest, and she had laughed and laughed – he can still see her expression in his mind’s eyes, her dark, bright eyes twinkling in mirth, looking up at him in such fondness that his breath was taken.

He’s loved her for so long, it sometimes takes him aback that there’s still farther to fall.

They had kissed under the mistletoe and Sokka had helped him wrap their walls in wrapping paper, and it may be a wholly ridiculous Christmas wonderland, but it makes him happy.

The inside of Appa, no matter how much he loves him, isn’t exactly the same.

But, as he glances in his review mirror, he catches sight of Katara, already asleep and readying for her driving shift, and Sokka, drawing a Christmas tree in the condensation on the window, and he realizes, it is the same.

The parts that matter are the same.

“So, Zuko,” Aang tries again. “What are you going to do with your Uncle? Do you have any traditions? Do you have a present for him?”

“Nothing more than a long overdue apology,” Zuko mutters, looking at his hands. Aang doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone who can sound so dramatic in such an even tone. “He has everything he would want.”

“Is there going to be anyone else there?” Aang asks. He doesn’t want to crash another person’s party.

Or at least, he doesn’t want to crash empty handed. There has to be a grocery store with a fruitcake open _somewhere._

“No. Maybe neighbors, or friends. Our family situation is—complicated.”

“We have nothing but time!” He gestures to the wide, open expanse of road.

“Aang,” Sokka admonishes from the back, quieter than before. “Not everyone wants to spill their family history to strangers.”

“Strangers are the _best_ to spill your family history to,” Aang disagrees. “What do I care if you have an Aunt who smells? It’s not like I can ever _tell_ her.”

“What about a sister who is in jail for attempted murder of you?” Zuko jokes.

Or Aang hopes he jokes.

He doesn’t really sound like he’s joking.

“I guess – I couldn’t…confront her either?” Aang tries, wincing at himself.

 _Why did I do this to me,_ he despairs. _He asked for quiet. He asked._

“Uh huh,” Sokka says from the back, smug.

“Maybe you are right though.” Zuko fiddles with his hands, but for once, Aang isn’t sure he actually wants to hear more. “Maybe I shouldn’t show up empty handed.”

“You’re welcome to give him anything you can find in the glove compartment,” Aang offers. Zuko opens it and begins to rifle through, pulling out a pack of gum, their car insurance, a tire gauge, and an old pen and notepad.

He pauses at the last and opens it, flipping through the first few pages that note oil change times and mileage. 

“Couldn’t hurt to write out the apology first,” Zuko muses. “I can imagine showing up and stumbling over my apology, and accidentally calling him a smelly oaf on accident.”

Aang wonders what it’s like to be embarrassing even in your own imagination.

* * *

It’s not that Katara thinks this is a bad idea, necessarily.

It’s logistically stupid – all three of them are going to have to trade off driving to make it in time; there are near no restaurants in the distance between, meaning they are going to have to rely on whatever they pack from home; it’ll use up a significant amount of the extra-gas supply the keep stored in Appa’s trunk; if they are turned away from Zuko’s Uncle, they will have nowhere reserved to stay, and it’s probably booked for the holiday – and so the list goes.

The more realistic concern, though, is not the logistical nightmare. If this were for Aang, for Sokka, for Toph, she wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.

But it’s not. It’s for a stranger – and a strange boy, who appears slightly older than all of them. He’s also clearly Fire Nation; she’s not xenophobic, but she’s also traveled enough to have a health wariness of the rich from that side of the world. And rich he appears to be, though his clothes are more tattered than she’d expect from their obvious expense.

It’s not so much the boy himself, if she’s honest with herself; it the unknown of the situation. Sokka’s the planner of the two of them, and she’d been known to jump into things quickly and without reserve, simply on the thought of helping – but she’s also been burned that way, more than once, and though she’d never tell him, there’s things about her brother she’d like to adapt within herself.

She wants to help, she’s willing to face the logistic problems, and she’ll give her time and effort to anyone who needs it – which Zuko apparently really does. So, she’s not really sure why she finds herself more concerned than excited.

But feelings aside, she’s a soft touch where both Sokka and Aang are concerned. They both asked, she mentioned her reservations once, was rebeuffed, and so she readies herself behind the wheel with good grace.

Aang’s traded off about 1/3 of the distance away, the same as they did the first time they did this journey, on Sokka’s recommendation. He’s already asleep, leaning against a snoring Sokka.

Zuko, however, is still awake and alert in the passenger’s seat, reading and re-reading a note he’s fiddling with in his hand.

“I was cleaning in the kitchen or sleeping through most of the background of this whole journey thing,” Katara starts, sneaking a look over at where Zuko’s resolutely staring out the windshield. There’s a star directly in front of them, oddly bright and twinkling. “I’m a bit starved of context. You’re going to see your Uncle, right? Is he a big Christmas guy?”

“You guys ask a lot of the same questions,” Zuko comments, and, she notes, doesn’t answer.

She raises a single eyebrow at him, turning her head so he can see. “There’s no call for rudeness. Just answer the question again.”

He probably prefers Aang – and he’s welcome to, as far as she’s concerned. She prefers Aang too. But she won’t be talked down to while she’s driving on an empty, snow-slick road minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve evening, simply to do him a favor.

He’s still not looking at her, but she can see he’s started to scratch at his palm with his nails. At last, he answers, “He’s not a big Christmas guy, no. He just – he’s like a father to me. I did him wrong, I want to make it right. Aang thought now would be a good time.”

“Sokka and my’s father is gone too,” Katara commiserates quietly. “Not gone gone, thankfully. But off in the Navy. We don’t know when, or if, we’ll ever see him again.”

“Oh, my father is still alive. But I’m sorry to hear that, you must really miss him. That’s rough.” 

“Your father is still around?” If their father was reachable – by phone, by mail, by _anything,_ they’d do it. They’d do it in a heartbeat. “Why are you going to see your Uncle, then?”

Zuko shrugs, and something about the forced-casualness of it catches her attention. “I didn’t earn all my scars. I’m not really looking to get more.”

When she first saw Zuko, she remembers immediately wondering what would cause a burn in such a specific area, on accident. Odder things have happened – but sometimes the easiest explanation is the correct one.

“And your Uncle…?”

“I’d clearly go a long, long, long, long way to spend an hour with him,” Zuko not-answers.

Whatever was unsettled within her, wondering if this was a good idea, a right idea, a just idea, settles. It’s answer enough.

She takes pity on him. “Hey, if you’re hungry, I have a whole feast under the seats. It’s well more than enough food for all of us.”

Zuko reaches down and pulls out the one closest to him, which happens to be a fairly intricate snowflake bread loaf.

Christmas is not her thing – but it is Aang’s, and she’s nothing if not one giant soft spot where he’s concerned, particularly when he gets excited about something. She had meticulously wrapped the loaf in silver foil paper, and then again in green and red ribbon, taking extra care to curl the ribbons with scissors, just like he taught her. She had wanted him to see it – but she can show him later. She still has a gift stashed in the closet with his name on it.

“Why is it so fancy?” Zuko asks, literally poking at the bow on top.

She checks the rearview mirror before answering, soft, “I had a surprise planned for Aang and Sokka tomorrow. A really huge dinner, with everything they liked best, all cooked and wrapped in Christmas decorations or on Christmas platters. We’ve never really made a huge deal out of it, beyond what Aang does, and I thought it’d be nice. Everything was done but the steaks.”

“Then _why_ would you agree to this?”

His tone is aghast, genuinely bewildered. Katara barely knows Zuko, but if there’s one thing that’s been made clear in the past hours, it’s that he’s not particularly used to how normal human beings interact with each other.

“Because you needed a Christmas more than Aang did.” She spares him a smile, trying to make it as genuine as possible. “And Aang’ll love this too.”

“But you made—”

“And they’ll still get eaten,” she says firmly. “They taste the same in a car as on a table.”

“But you had—”

“And they’ll survive in the fridge for several days.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t matter, Zuko,” she cuts off. “I’m not being stupid. I just don’t care.”

She can hear him breathe for several moments, maybe even several minutes. They whiz past a tree farm sign, adorned with a waving ornament. When he eventually speaks, his voice is soft. “I’ve never met anyone like that before. Other than Uncle.”

Well, doesn’t that feel like a kick in the sternum. “Well, Merry Christmas, then,” she says, when what she’s really thinking is _you need new people._

He lays his head on the window and closes his eyes, and Katara hopes, deeper than she would have expected, that his Uncle is who Zuko thinks he is.

* * *

“For the _record,_ ” Sokka starts, before he’s even turned on the ignition. “I agreed to this because I’m not a Scrooge, and Aang asked me, with his _eyes,_ and Aang is really easy to love and really hard to say no to, but I did _not_ say yes because I have any interest in you or Ba Sing Se. Okay? Capiche? Capiche. And, as there’s no protocol for whatever,” he waves his hand in the air, “ _this_ is, I’m setting ground rules. I pick the music, I pick the way we go, I drive until I decide I can’t, which, I think, will be until we actually get to Ba Sing Se, and you don’t have commentary. If you can agree to these conditions, we’ll have a very pleasant trip together. Okay? Okay.”

“Can I go back to sleep?”

The car starts smoothly. “I’ll allow it.”

“Can you turn the radio off?”

“No.”

Zuko sighs, and maybe this is something Sokka should let go – Zuko was sleeping before he and Katara switched, after all, and the door closing woke him up, there really isn’t any _need_ to alienate him further. “Why do you always need the sound on?”

Sokka’s quiet a moment as he considers, staring out at the open road, the headlights illuminating just a few feet in front of the vehicle, the vortex of light yellow in the dark of night.

He doesn’t really know what to say.

Finally, he answers, “I guess silence is harder.”

Zuko’s reminded of his own feelings regarding silence, his interest in snow for its quiet, his love of soundless mornings. He also considers, for a moment, what silence means in a house with a father who verbally and physically assaults his children versus a home with a dearly beloved father who was absent to participate in a deadly war.

He doesn’t touch the volume.

“You look like you’re thinking hard,” Sokka says lightly. He’s seen Aang try and miserably fail to coax this guy into conversation, but Sokka’s nothing if not devoted to his charm.

“Yeah.”

“And…?”

“I’m tired.”

Sokka can try again in the morning. Zuko looks like he could use a good night’s rest.

Zuko’s woken up by his head banging against the window as they hit a pothole. He blinks awake, eyes scratchy and muscles stiff.

“Morning,” Sokka greets softly. Aang and Katara are still asleep in the back. “We’re about 20 minutes out.”

“Oh.” Ba Sing Se’s wall is visible in the distance, a speck no larger than his thumb. In that little dot on the horizon, somewhere, is his Uncle – still asleep, unknowing they’re coming. The man who not only followed Zuko around the corners of the Earth but refused to make peace with letting Zuko go. Uncle put his life on hold – and on the line – to support him, for no discernable reason, with no cost to Zuko, and with no expectation of any reciprocity. Zuko can’t begin to count the times he’s probably disappointed his Uncle – so many times it’s probably expected rather than a surprise. Pity only gets you so many concessions, and Zuko used those up about six breakdowns ago.

He digs the speech out of his pocket, and fumbles open the crinkled lined paper. With a thumb, he smooths out its creased edges, re-reads the words that have echoed his mind countless times, the words that somehow feel impossible to say and far too little to encompass what he feels.

Sokka’s eyeing him from the driver’s seat, and must pick up on his hesitation, and he flips on his blinker. Changing lanes, he carefully maneuvers to the side, rolling to a stop,

“Hey,” he says. “Come out for a minute.”

Zuko unbuckles his seatbelt, and opens the door, and heads to the trunk where Sokka is already climbing on top.

The air is crisp and cool, undoubtedly morning in the winter. He can feel his lungs spike with cold as he breathes in – it’s fresh, unpolluted air, and he feels the ache deep in his chest as he climbs up beside Sokka.

“Check it out.” Sokka elbows him in the ribs, then points to the horizon behind them.

It must be just a bit past dawn. The sun has fully peaked out of the horizon, large and yellow and just slightly hazy with fluffy clouds all around. The sky around is a wonderous blue, scattered with pink rays, almost glimmering with a golden hue.

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah.” Sokka grabs a bag he had set behind him, pulling it onto his lap. “Ba Sing Se sunrises are beautiful.”

“Yeah, they really are.”

Sokka opens the bag, and reaches in. “How many muffins do you want – 5 or 6?”

Zuko blinks. “Uh, neither of those are a number of muffins people eat in one sitting.”

Sokka shrugs, supremely unconcerned. “Okay, suit yourself.”

He tosses one over to Zuko, and he smiles on seeing it’s dyed green.

“Extras from the restaurant,” Sokka explains, crumbs flying from his mouth as he speaks. “Katara dyes them for holidays to be ‘festive’ or whatever.”

“I like it,” Zuko decides.

Sokka smiles at him, like he didn’t expect that, and then smiles wider. “Hey, Merry Christmas, Zuko.”

“Merry Christmas.” There’s words on the tip of his tongue, beating in his heart, and he knows, knows they must be said. “And, uh – whatever your motivations for agreeing to this, thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“All good.” Sokka shrugs, like it is, which belays a little of what he had said earlier, but this seems far more genuine than a just awoken, sleep-grumpy state of mind. “Not like I had any grand plans. And it’s nice – oh, I don’t know. To see someone try for something that matters to them. Not a bad thing to help with.”

Zuko picks at his muffin, letting crumbs fall to his feet. His heart feels heavy – in anticipation, but also in exhaustion. “I feel like sometimes I do nothing but try.”

Sokka makes some sort of noise. “God, how is that a bad thing?”

Zuko shrugs. There’s no way to express what consistent, constant failure feels like. He’s dearly hoping they don’t all get to witness it once again, that Uncle doesn’t simply push him out the door without a word.

Both their legs are swaying slightly as they hang off the car, and Zuko watches them move back and forth, thinking of nothing. Sokka’s shoes have squares all over them.

“Hey,” Zuko says.

“Mmm?”

“What do you do? Like, besides waiting tables? I didn’t ask.”

Sokka laughs brightly, and swallows around what must be his third muffin. “Engineering student. I want to be an inventor.”

“An inventor,” Zuko repeats. “Huh.” Sokka looks like he’s waiting for something further, so he tries for honesty. “That’s cool.”

Sokka smile drifts into something softer. “Cool, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sokka crumbles the bag, the noise loud in the quiet morning. Aang and Katara are still asleep in the back, cuddled close and huddled on the backseat. In front of him, Ba Sing Se awaits.

* * *

There’s a wreath on the outside of Iroh’s apartment door. Zuko had considered breaking into the tea shop and just using the stairs, so he could be inside when Iroh awoke, but, in the end, the threat of a breaking and entering charge was a deterrent. To Katara, at least, who brought it up and was seemingly not-understand Zuko’s unwillingness to knock on the door.

Zuko takes a deep breath, and raises his hand.

It hangs in the air.

And he lowers his hand.

He turns towards Aang, Katara, and Sokka, who are waiting behind him on the steps. This group of people he knows, now, in some fashion, in some way – in depth if not in time. These people who he owes a great debt, who gave him very little concrete except for gas, but gave him something infinitely more precious and coveted in Zuko’s mind – their time, and their compassion.

“Look, I really appreciate that you guys came all this way with me. I really do. I just want to warn you that there’s a chance he’ll slam the door in my face. Or yell at me, really, really loudly. Or – or hate me. And that’s okay. Don’t be surprised or upset, okay?”

“If he doesn’t let us in, do we have somewhere to sleep before having to drive back?” Sokka asks. Katara elbows him in the stomach, eliciting a, “Hey! I am _not_ sleeping in the back of that car again, and it’s a pragmatic question.”

“Would you just shut up?” Katara hisses. “You never say the right thing.”

“Oh, and you do, Mrs. Perfect?”

“I am _not—”_

“Hey, guys, maybe this isn’t the—”

Zuko turns away and faces the door. Swallowing past his anxiety, he takes a breath. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his speech and tries not to let his nerves crumple the paper.

“Okay.”

He knocks.

Several seconds pass, and nothing happens. He can hear someone shift behind him.

He knocks louder.

“I swear, if he took a car to go see Zuko in the Northern Territory, I’m going—”

“He did _not,_ ” Zuko snaps, probably too loudly. He knocks again, once, before resolving to come back at a time of the morning that might be a little more respectable.

He’s just about to turn when he can hear footsteps approach, and the muffled sounds of someone grumbling.

“Okay, okay,” Uncle says behind the door, and Zuko’s heart skips in his chest.

The door opens, and, yes, there he is.

He’s in a nightgown, a green one, one he’s had for ages. He actually looks remarkably the same, if actually in a little better shape. But it’s the same balding head, same gray beard, same short stature. Same kind face.

“Zuko,” he breathes.

“Yes, Uncle, it’s me.” He chuckles nervously. Oh, he wants this moment to be over. But he has to take it – he needs to say it, out loud. He’s meant it for months, he’s believed in his change, he’s tried to live his changed spirit, but Iroh needs to know. He needs to hear the words, hear the apology, and he needs to respond it whatever way he’s going to respond, if they’ll ever even have a chance of moving forward.

Even if they don’t move forward. It must be done.

He opens up his speech, eyes flitting down so he can remember all he wanted to say. “Uncle, I know you must be furious with me, and I understand. For the past few months, all I have thought about is how wrong I was, and how right you were. And I know you may never forgive me, but I had to say, I am so sorry for—”

Iroh steps forward, and with one movement, pulls Zuko down into a hard, crushing hug. In his surprise, the speech flies out of his hand and down the stairs, out of reach. Iroh’s arms reach around Zuko, flush, pulling him tighter, and he hides his face in Zuko’s shoulder for several moments.

“I—Uncle, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Zuko,” he says. With one last squeeze, he steps back. When his face pulls into Zuko’s line of sight, it’s clear his eyes are bright with tears. “I was never angry. I was afraid, for you. All I wanted was for you to find your way.”

“I did. Thanks to you.”

“And you’ve found your way back to me as well.” He looks beyond Zuko, and clearly catches sight of the gang behind him. Zuko looks at Aang’s enthusiastic, Katara’s small, and Sokka’s awkward waves. “And you found _friends_ on the way.” The gleam in Uncle’s eye turns slightly manic. “Well, come in, _come in._ You’ve never had _friends_ before! Do they want tea?”

Embarrassment churns in Zuko’s gut, and he can feel his face flush – but it’s such welcome change from shame.

* * *

Aang and Sokka have apparently been bullied into drinking tea, but Sokka’s walking around with a wine glass full of orange juice. Iroh had immediately put some bread in the oven when they arrived, and the smell is starting to permeate through the apartment, smelling home-y and warm.

Iroh’s apartment is festive, to a point that it slightly makes Zuko’s eyes hurt – Aang’s sweater fits right in, and he had gleefully enjoyed the tour Iroh provided of all the different decorations he’s collected over his travels.

It’s late morning by now. In Ba Sing Se, the snow was lighter than the North, but still slightly present – a thin dusting over the world, like sprinkled powdered sugar.

Katara is sitting in Aang’s lap, laughing at a series of Christmas puns like he’s the only man in the world to make them. Aang has one hand on her back and the other on a jingle bell, which had detached from his sweater sometime after they arrived. Sokka is near the tree, making some sort of adjustment to the tree stand to make it stand straighter – or is attempting. Zuko has no doubt of his ability, but he’s currently getting a face full of pine needles, and there have been several loud exclamations about sap.

Iroh joins Zuko by the window, looking out on the street of smiling civilians. They pass a few moments in silence, watching life pass by, before Iroh turns to Zuko, more somber than usual. “I am so glad you came, Zuko.”

He can’t trace even a hint of insincerity. “Really?”

“Of course.” A hand comes up on his shoulder and squeezes tight. “I already always miss one son on Christmas. I don’t want to miss another if I don’t have to.”

Tears immediately well in Zuko’s eyes. “You make me feel sorry for the side of myself I am when I don’t have you.”

“You will always have me.” He squeezes his shoulder once more, and then drops his hand. “Next time, give me a little notice though, eh? So I can at least go out and buy you a present. You and these wonderful friends of yours.”

Zuko looks back into the room, at the smiling faces of those who didn’t even exist in his memory 24 hours ago.

He doesn’t know what the years ahead will bring – but if he has a say in it, these people will be in them, all of them.

"Merry Christmas, Uncle."

"It is."

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! Say hi if you wish!


End file.
